


Jaws of the Beast

by FionasEmbrace



Category: Demon's Souls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FionasEmbrace/pseuds/FionasEmbrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was the same dream. That night, he saw the end of the world- the slumbering vermin with the key to our throats." A knight finds safety by way of his prince's soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jaws of the Beast

**Author's Note:**

> On 1/19/2014 this was given a rewrite to be in 3rd person, with some other changes.

It was the same dream. That night, he saw the end of the world, and its three corners: the whole nation swollen up, bruised, and finally rendered in payment for the sins of its beloved Allantine. They were betrayed for the last time, and in custody of the ancient, slumbering vermin holding a key to everyone's throats. A mosaic of blood, then the horde- they were so helpless. The storm came bellowing in. So great was the distancing of Allant's subjects from heavenly favor, that the only part he could remember clearly was this: in the dream, Allant did what was not allowed, and in the future they were all undone. The creature that gave them over was born out of the earth, even the selfsame flesh they were made on. It fed on them. The wyrm bore him up and down, to far away places, to the other worlds meant for the dead. Everyone's poor remains were translated there, in those dark continents to be journeyed for ever.

But, it was morning. He awoke with a start. 

His assignment, as one of four captains of the guard, was to ready Allant's army for its soon-to-come battle against the southern lands. Their king has had a long-standing feud with their governor and an invitation to war may be expected any day. Metas served this post for some years now. He readied himself even though the battle wasn't yet imminent. While he had always appraised his own deeds as unremarkable, fit to bandy only with the common soldiers, his service in the army drew a lot of attention from Allant. Despite his valor, he was known for being humble about all his military accomplishments. 

Metas was promoted directly to Allant's service after his effort in Boletaria's wars. In its grandest battle along the eastern borders, he slew some five thousand with a lance. On one occasion, he fought a valiant duel against the enemy's fiercest commander, bested him and then to make that triumph apparent, drew his heart out. For that, the King took great interest in him and he was vouchsafed a rank. Moreover, since his given name was Arthur, sometimes he was known as "Arthur wielding a cutlass". In any case, he commanded several thousand troupes of elite soldiers and lead the charges himself.

He vividly remembered the promotion ceremony. It was a time long ago, and he was promoted a captain. Allant spoke highly of all Metas's accomplishments and Metas knelt down to be knighted. That day, he met the king in person for the first time. First there was a greeting from the King and Queen of Latria, Urbain and some representatives of the church, and then the other nobles. This included a rather corpulent minister who was always skeptical of the knight. In any case, it was all well and good. But, the most vivid object in his memory was when he beheld the Prince. The privilege was never allowed to him before, since he was actually a commoner. 

The prince did not speak at all during any of the ceremony, allowing his father to conduct everything, standing timidly to the side, which was Arthur supposed was their typical way of things. Despite being of age he had no power yet. He was a man about Arthur's years and height, standing in full armor. It was standard-issue and a bit unceremonious for someone of princely station. His visor was removed and Arthur could see his face. By that alone, he attributed some special nobility to him and a certain promise which Allant did not have. He had the look of someone good-natured and pure, somehow, untarnished by the evils of the world. 

When it was appropriate to greet him, he knelt down at the prince's feet, affixing his gaze to the ground in the propriety expected. "My lord."

"Arthur Metas, thou hast done a great service to Boletaria, to Our army and to Our father. Our most sincere thanks." He smiled and reached out his hand. Taking this as a cue, Arthur took the prince's hand in his and gently kissed it. It felt soft, innocent and fragran. He became flustered. The prince glanced around, and finally offered, "Please, there's no need to stand on ceremony. Won't you stand up?" He seemed to have little patience for all this. Arthur stood up, and they conversed about the war. That day would always be etched, branded in his memory, like an encounter with the supernatural. While there was little reason for it, he still rested the hope of their kingdom on him. Never would he thought to expect the Prince to be so unlike Allant. 

After the conversation, Arthur swore his oaths. It was too much- a rank as captain of the guard. If he had been told this would happen a few years ago, he never would have believed it. Now, it was final. His poor self, if only to accompany the mighty, he swore to repurpose to the King's designs, along with his land's brave and hard of mettle far and wide who have gathered to defend her sovereignty and King. If the King found some purpose for him, looking past his base unworthiness, there was nothing more to say.

But, he would strive in the wars in order to see the Prince again.

After receiving the new rank, his reputation grew prominent as a warrior who pierced through all the defenses of their enemies no matter how stalwart their armor, or how expansive their phalanxes. Every battle played out the same.

The royal guard was a long-standing tradition. While the years came and went, the watchful gaze bestowed upon them by the heroes of Old never wavered. Surrounding their land, it blessed their dead and protected them from the powers of evil. By the provision of the gaze and reconciliation with the Old One's demons they enjoyed long ages of safety. And like the warriors of Old, the warriors of their time made vows to protect the dynasty. In its distant history Boletaria has seen conflict with other kingdoms. It had always been that way, since the beginning of recorded history. The royal guard was charged to keep watch over their blessed land, recruiting the devoted, asking those with enough fealty to take all pains, spare limb and change life for country. The strength of their King's dynasty was nothing, really, if not for them.

Necessarily, then, Arthur dedicated himself in service to Allant. Even so, buried underneath all these his good intentions, there was something else. It was that dream again. The sting of the worm. A black spot never to be washed out. Never, under any circumstances, could he reveal this to anyone. In the dream, he started to see something else. He dreamt, over and over, of the Prince - there was lust in his heart- and of defiling him. He wondered: are dreams portentous? And if they are, the wyrm from the dream is no worse than the other demons keeping themselves scarce, experimenting with his innocence in the dark.

* * *

Days passed and war came, but not the one they expected. Allant betrayed them all, awakening the old slumbering wyrm. It conceived a massive horde of demons, big and small, clamoring over vastness of land and squeezing through all corners of the countryside. They reproduced by consuming the living. With the demons' consumption of flesh and reanimation of bodies, the country was emptying but there were no corpses in the streets. In the neighboring lands, a whole extent was leveled, plunged to the ground and merged into an accursed valley, the air and flora became poison and flame and death. The ground sunk so low it certainly was a new mouth to the country of the dead. Here there was little time, and they were quickly making their way for the castle.

When he had word of the demon blight, the king summoned all his guards, the bravest of his followers. First there was Arthur himself, wielder of the penetrating lance. His men were disbanded and lost but he had enough resolve to try and hold the line alone. Then there was Alfred, bearing the unstoppable shield. He was always alongside Arthur at the van. And as always, Oolan's troupe of ten thousand archers, or what they could retain of them, volleying spades. The three fought together for a time. But, all their defenses were to effectless use and they could not prevent the demons' advance, so they retreated back.

In Boletaria's castle, the demons arrived. There was nothing left to defend it, save some physical barricades left on the front doors. Loud crashes and noises echoed through the halls. The door would imminently be rammed down, and monsters swarmed into the windows upstairs. They were incoming, and the castle walls were breached and many of the upper platforms could not support the sheer weight of the horde. Arthur fled into the main throne room, looking for an escape, a sign, anything. Maybe there was some access to the outside through the basement. After all, where had all the castle's other inhabitants gone? Instead, he thought his eyes were deceiving him. Waiting there alone, paying him no mind, was Prince Ostrava. 

He simply stood in the middle of the throne room, staring straight in front of him. Portraits of kings of old. Yes, of his own father, too, lined the walls, oblivious to their soon-obsolescence as greyed, forgotten marks in history. Even Arthur had given up hope for the future of their kingdom, but he thought the two of them may yet save themselves. Ostrava was standing there, dressed for battle- expensive linen garments mostly eclipsed by his shiny, little-used plate mail. The armored pieces he used now had many decorative flutings. His visored helmet was put to the side on the floor. Despite the blaring sound, Ostrava was unperturbed, and in the mood for speaking very little. He simply stared into nothingness.

"Lord Ostrava, what is this? How is your lordship still here?" 

"Please, Sir Metas." He simply advised the knight, and sighed. "You must leave." 

Arthur was confounded. "What means all of this? We need to escape from here. The castle is given over but we can yet save ourselves." The demon horde echoed outside the castle gates; there was a constant blaring of shouts of demons punctuated by human screams. He knew then- one by one the guards, the nobles, and caretakers were being claimed.

"Knight, it's not too late for you. The enemies are capable and there's a lot of them. But you have strove through a myriad battles already. I am absolutely certain you can still find a way out of here. Please understand, that it is too late for our family. My father brought this misery onto all of us. And no matter what is to befall us here, that guilt will remain forever. We are all betrayed... Even if I could survive the danger here, I cannot live with this shame."

Arthur could not understand why he would not leave, or why he would seem to resign himself to death now. This was no time to simply lie down in wait for the end. He turned his gaze from the wall of portraits and toward the knight. 

"Metas, list you," His tone was grave. "Our Kings will come and go, and our kingdom will change hands. This is not what may be; this is what will be, certainly. We're purchased with blood of other people- people like yourself. To be one of these heroes is honor enough, but you have distinguished yourself in dearer and more cherished service to this kingdom than any of them. Knight, you were a real blessing to my time here. I only ask that you to forget about me." 

To think our prince esteemed his worth and his intentions so highly was unbearable. The prince was the country's noblest, most treasured ornament, and should not have to condescend himself to even acknowledge the knight. Arthur thought of all of his ill-intentioned ideas surrounding the prince; those he could not dispel even while he slept, and concluded that he did not deserve to be here. He did not deserve air. 

"Please use this to remember Allant favorably."

Taking a ring worn on a chain around his neck, he removed it and put it in the knight's hand. Arthur knew it to be an old heirloom long treasured in the Allant family, and emblem of valor. The pattern looked a bit like a patterned knot, with intricate metal flourish. The family had many heirlooms like this. But this one was personally Ostrava's. It shone nobly in the light and had a weighty feel. After pressing the ring down in his hand, the prince closed the other man's fingers into a fist around it, as if to prevent him from dropping it.

"What does this mean?"

"Let us not see each other this way."

The noise outside blared still. Hearing the castle door start to give, Arthur grabbed the prince's arm and pulled him toward a small, rather hidden chamber not so far away. There was still time yet to save them both. The prince was not uncooperative, but he was not really given an opportunity to break away. Arthur simply took his limp arm and urged him away. The elevator chamber was a closet only a couple paces long and the same wide, but the mesh door was thick and they could possibly avoid discovery. Normally this room would serve as transport to the upper level, but the structural damage to the castle left it completely inoperable. Arthur took care not to agitate anything near the door and cause noise. 

"Do not fear, dear Prince. We will wait here until the horde is finished, and leave when it is safe."

"Thank you, Metas."

The small room was quite crowded as we stood close and heard the noise outside. Arthur's thoughts would normally have erred here again; the close walls, the warm air; it would have been nothing to force someone here. But even now he was preoccupied with the danger outside, and their survival. Peering through a crack he could see the door to the throne room rustling, and moved a bit to get a better view. They could wait for the demons to pass through here, however long that took, and leave when it was safe. The creatures were numerous but they were feeble-minded, and quick to move on to the next easily perceived source of life in their midst. This would eventually lead them out of the castle and into other territory. If they were to thin out here, Arthur could dispatch the few that were around them. As he watched, the door came in and out of focus and there was some debris in the way. Suddenly he felt something wet, dripping on to his hand, onto the floor. He looked back upon Ostrava.

In front of Arthur, the prince had his sword drawn. He had pierced himself right in the middle. The blood continued to drip down, as he stared into the nothingness abound. Ostrava's throat cracked, and there were no words. He doubled over, and collapsed forward. Arthur caught his body and let it down into a seated position against the wall. He wanted to ask him why. Was it so futile? Was there no hope for escape? But the words would not even let themselves from him. Have mercy. His body went completely limp and he was lost. It was too late. 

Ostrava killed himself in the elevator. Metas couldn't understand it- so far his wordly steps had not prepared him. Instead it removed all his doubts: in these types of tragedies and spectacles of heartbreak, there was a secret. There was some evil agent at work here. He would never understand it really. 

And then for the first time, he had no one to serve. Allant was given over. They swore themselves to him in unwavering fealty, and now the kingdom was in ruin. Allant's towering castles, the fruit of years of long history, and its beautiful cities are all ravaged by devils. In the countryside, the living were plucked out. The devils abound fed on the souls of the living, and their bodies were reformed into vermin. As for the king's guard, they could do nothing to stop this work and in the end, they could not protect dear old Allant. They were all going to die here. If these were the extent of their kingdom's sorrow, that would be well. Arthur was content to offer himself up, however meager he perceived his abilities, in service until the bitter end. To even entertain the possibility of saving Allant and preventing this disaster would be a kingdom of riches purchased with a trifling cost. Would the betrayal of Allant were the only article of their sorrows. No, Prince Ostrava was lost. 

It was now, that he despaired.

* * *

The front door finally gave under the prolonged bombardment, and collapsed entirely. Demons large and small poured in. A couple were ten, twenty paces high, with grotesque inhuman features and impervious limbs, surely descending from the most desecrated of souls. The vast majority were human-sized, some were skeletal, some were ugly flesh-covered ghouls. Then there were some smaller, insectlike vermin that scurried in the ground. Their march was deterred now only by the fact that they kept fighting amongst themselves. All at once they stormed into the castle.

As for Arthur, he could have still avoided detection. He could have stayed in the elevator chamber to wait for them to pass, to pray that they could not smell blood or seek out the taste of a human soul. The beings were murderously attracted to human vitality and blood, but they were dumb creatures, and there were surely some other nearby corpses to reel in their gazes. There may have been an opportunity for him to leave, to look for somewhere to escape. 

But, he simply alighted the elevator and stood in the middle of the throne room facing the broken-down door, much as he found the Prince some long moments ago. The whole world already collapsed down today. He took his sword and shield, and dropped them to the ground beside. The demons so yearned for human flesh, they came upon him all at once. They consumed his flesh, tore him apart, stabbed his body with spears, destroyed him beyond any and all recognition. He was ready.

In all the times he imagined what it might be really like to die, he had imagined a deep sleep. Or a type of fading into nothingness, where his senses didn't matter any more. Or his gods would reclaim his soul, even burdened in sin. None of these happened. His body was carried away into the dead country, into a thick airspace of phantoms. He could only hear the whispered language of long, enchanted verses narrating his obligations to Allant. And like the phantoms he became undead and hollow, the leftover shell of someone abruptly cut off from human fortunes. Like them he was unnaturally bound to corrupted earth. Ephemeral eyes glanced his way. His physical form was stretched through air and fulsome spaces, like many of the larger demons, and like in fortitude and even retaining his sentience. Wordlessly he took up his sword and shield. The devils lost interest in the throne room and moved out.

In other worlds, he presented himself as he was. Even now aligned himself with the demons, Allant required the knight's protection. Now, no matter what would befall his body, no mortal blow could overcome him. He retained his bravery and courageous heart. Allant betrayed them all, but the power granted him tempered Arthur into a projection bound by its duty. As long as Allant had custody of him, he would keep his promise to protect the King faithfully. He would still serve Allant in goodness, bravery and courage. 

In his own world, Arthur left the castle. He traveled the path out of there, and journeyed far away, over the hills, beside the scorched valley, through the ruined cities, through vast places. The days melted into one another, having no bearing any more, and nothing impeded his travels. And he escaped even the vastness of that country. He went to the northern lands, which had not yet seen the corruption. It seemed like a distant, irrelevant memory that he was known as the royal guard with the unstoppable lance, enjoying so many royal gifts and favors. That was as much a dream as the visions of the wyrm. It had no bearing now. He locked Ostrava out of his memory. The tasks here will be different. In all this, he will use his given name Arthur- or Artorias. 

Inwardly, he prayed for the prince to wait for him. Because with enough time, they would meet again. Even now, in the darkest hour, he promised to stay pure of heart and not give up hope. Here, the King was in his Kingdom and everything about this land was favorable than before. Here he could score out the evil. His own spots were washed, locked away. The sun was sweeping all over here. Yes, he could anchor himself down- all the way to the bottom.


End file.
